How to Drive a Dragon Crazy
Page 16
So seeing that the Kyvich were lurking around her niece made Dagmar feel nothing but discomfort.
“Did Commander Ásta have anything interesting to say?” she asked Talwyn.
“No.”
Dagmar, as always, waited for more, but after all these years, one would think she’d know better.
“Talwyn,” Dagmar finally said, “should I be concern—”
“Aren’t the barbarian horde at the gates?” her niece cut in.
Unwilling to delve into how Talwyn knew that the Reinholdts had arrived without actually seeing them, Dagmar asked, “Can’t you just call them family?”
Talwyn looked at her through the mass of black hair that constantly fell into her eyes and bluntly admitted, “Not and mean it.”
Snorting a little before she could stop herself, Dagmar nodded. “Fair enough.”
Without another word—she talked less than her brother—Talwyn headed to the training ring for more weapons practice than anyone would ever need, and with a heavy sigh, Dagmar headed to the front gate.
Although Dagmar and Gwenvael visited her aging father as often as she could manage, even bringing Talaith and Annwyl with them on occasion, she’d never had any of her family here at Garbhán Isle.
But her father had written her himself. Well . . . he’d dictated a letter himself to the assistant she’d handpicked for him. And her father had made this request. How could she turn him down?
She couldn’t. So she had to suck this up, as Talaith had told her.
Dagmar headed toward the courtyard, getting there just as the sons of her brothers arrived on their large Northland stallions. The oldest, Alppi, eldest son of Dagmar’s eldest brother, Eymund, dismounted his horse and stood before Dagmar. He nodded his head . . . then stared at her, frowning just like her brother often did when he was confused.
“Aunt Dagmar . . .” His frown worsened. “I . . .”
“You . . . what?”
“Thought you’d be old by now,” Alppi’s younger brother informed her. “But you look the same . . . don’tcha?”
Dagmar wouldn’t bother explaining the gift of long life similar to that of a dragon’s, which had been bestowed upon her by the Dragon Queen when she’d committed herself to the queen’s son Gwenvael. Instead, she simply replied, “I’ll look like this long after all of you are dust and forgotten.”
Her nephew stared at her a little longer before Alppi shrugged and said, “Yeah, whatever. Got anything to eat?”
She pointed toward the guards’ mess, not even considering sending any of them to the Great Hall, where, most horrifying of all, they might catch sight of sweet and unattached Rhi. The vision of the bodies of her many nephews, burned beyond recognition, being returned to her brothers woke her up some nights.
The rest of her nephews dismounted their horses and followed Alppi. All except one, who seemed to be struggling with the concept of removing himself from the back of his steed.
Dagmar walked around until she stood next to the boy and his horse.
“Hello, Frederik.” Frederik Reinholdt, eighth-born son of her brother Fridmar. And, as her father had less than kindly said in his letter, “Resident family idiot.”
The fourteen-year-old boy glanced at her, nodded. “Aunt Dagmar.”
“Need some help?”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
She didn’t really believe him, so she motioned over one of the squires who’d come to take care of her nephews’ horses. But as the squire moved in to assist, Dagmar had to take a quick step back just as Frederik slipped from the horse and hit the ground hard.
“Ow,” she heard him mumble.
And Dagmar barely kept in a long, pained sigh. Gods, what had she agreed to?
Chapter 6
“You have to go.”
“I can’t. I’ve made a—”
“Out,” Izzy ordered.
Éibhear shrugged. “Make me.”
“Make you?”
Gods, she sounded annoyed. Not that he blamed her. But her annoyance combined with the scent of blood, dirt, and death that she was covered in, was rather enticing.
Iseabail the Dangerous was definitely not the girl he’d left behind all those years ago. Tall and powerfully built, her bare arms showed the hard years of life in the human queen’s army, from her strong, well-defined muscular physique to the scars he could see on any exposed skin. But her beauty—that had not changed. Instead it had merely sharpened, becoming even more powerful.
Even now, pissed as she was, all he could see were large, light brown eyes glaring down at him, while shoulder-length, wavy light brown hair framed a sculpted face, cheekbones sharp, dimples temporarily missing because she wasn’t smiling. Her lips were full and rather—if he did say so himself—pouty; and her once-sharp nose was no longer as sharp now that, he’d guess, it had been broken. Perhaps more than once. But that bit of imperfection only made her more beautiful, as far as Éibhear was concerned.
“Éibhear—”
“I’m not leaving.”
Izzy grabbed one of his hands from behind his head and pulled. She kept pulling too, while Éibhear lay there and let her.
“Gods be damned! You weigh as much as my bloody horse!”
“Only when I’m human.”
Snarling, she tossed his arm back at him and he barely managed not to hit himself in the face.
“Out!”
“Did Commander Ásta have anything interesting to say?” she asked Talwyn.
“No.”
Dagmar, as always, waited for more, but after all these years, one would think she’d know better.
“Talwyn,” Dagmar finally said, “should I be concern—”
“Aren’t the barbarian horde at the gates?” her niece cut in.
Unwilling to delve into how Talwyn knew that the Reinholdts had arrived without actually seeing them, Dagmar asked, “Can’t you just call them family?”
Talwyn looked at her through the mass of black hair that constantly fell into her eyes and bluntly admitted, “Not and mean it.”
Snorting a little before she could stop herself, Dagmar nodded. “Fair enough.”
Without another word—she talked less than her brother—Talwyn headed to the training ring for more weapons practice than anyone would ever need, and with a heavy sigh, Dagmar headed to the front gate.
Although Dagmar and Gwenvael visited her aging father as often as she could manage, even bringing Talaith and Annwyl with them on occasion, she’d never had any of her family here at Garbhán Isle.
But her father had written her himself. Well . . . he’d dictated a letter himself to the assistant she’d handpicked for him. And her father had made this request. How could she turn him down?
She couldn’t. So she had to suck this up, as Talaith had told her.
Dagmar headed toward the courtyard, getting there just as the sons of her brothers arrived on their large Northland stallions. The oldest, Alppi, eldest son of Dagmar’s eldest brother, Eymund, dismounted his horse and stood before Dagmar. He nodded his head . . . then stared at her, frowning just like her brother often did when he was confused.
“Aunt Dagmar . . .” His frown worsened. “I . . .”
“You . . . what?”
“Thought you’d be old by now,” Alppi’s younger brother informed her. “But you look the same . . . don’tcha?”
Dagmar wouldn’t bother explaining the gift of long life similar to that of a dragon’s, which had been bestowed upon her by the Dragon Queen when she’d committed herself to the queen’s son Gwenvael. Instead, she simply replied, “I’ll look like this long after all of you are dust and forgotten.”
Her nephew stared at her a little longer before Alppi shrugged and said, “Yeah, whatever. Got anything to eat?”
She pointed toward the guards’ mess, not even considering sending any of them to the Great Hall, where, most horrifying of all, they might catch sight of sweet and unattached Rhi. The vision of the bodies of her many nephews, burned beyond recognition, being returned to her brothers woke her up some nights.
The rest of her nephews dismounted their horses and followed Alppi. All except one, who seemed to be struggling with the concept of removing himself from the back of his steed.
Dagmar walked around until she stood next to the boy and his horse.
“Hello, Frederik.” Frederik Reinholdt, eighth-born son of her brother Fridmar. And, as her father had less than kindly said in his letter, “Resident family idiot.”
The fourteen-year-old boy glanced at her, nodded. “Aunt Dagmar.”
“Need some help?”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
She didn’t really believe him, so she motioned over one of the squires who’d come to take care of her nephews’ horses. But as the squire moved in to assist, Dagmar had to take a quick step back just as Frederik slipped from the horse and hit the ground hard.
“Ow,” she heard him mumble.
And Dagmar barely kept in a long, pained sigh. Gods, what had she agreed to?
Chapter 6
“You have to go.”
“I can’t. I’ve made a—”
“Out,” Izzy ordered.
Éibhear shrugged. “Make me.”
“Make you?”
Gods, she sounded annoyed. Not that he blamed her. But her annoyance combined with the scent of blood, dirt, and death that she was covered in, was rather enticing.
Iseabail the Dangerous was definitely not the girl he’d left behind all those years ago. Tall and powerfully built, her bare arms showed the hard years of life in the human queen’s army, from her strong, well-defined muscular physique to the scars he could see on any exposed skin. But her beauty—that had not changed. Instead it had merely sharpened, becoming even more powerful.
Even now, pissed as she was, all he could see were large, light brown eyes glaring down at him, while shoulder-length, wavy light brown hair framed a sculpted face, cheekbones sharp, dimples temporarily missing because she wasn’t smiling. Her lips were full and rather—if he did say so himself—pouty; and her once-sharp nose was no longer as sharp now that, he’d guess, it had been broken. Perhaps more than once. But that bit of imperfection only made her more beautiful, as far as Éibhear was concerned.
“Éibhear—”
“I’m not leaving.”
Izzy grabbed one of his hands from behind his head and pulled. She kept pulling too, while Éibhear lay there and let her.
“Gods be damned! You weigh as much as my bloody horse!”
“Only when I’m human.”
Snarling, she tossed his arm back at him and he barely managed not to hit himself in the face.
“Out!”
